


Repercussions

by impish_nature



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, last episode spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impish_nature/pseuds/impish_nature
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Defeating Bill left it’s scars on the older twins, some worse than others. Ford tries to stay strong, they both do, but sometimes Stan’s memory deserts him and Ford has to keep himself afloat alone. And unfortunately sometimes, his own demons come out to play at the worst possible moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussions

It was a peaceful day on the Stan’O’War.

And Ford had nothing to distract himself with.

He sighed deeply, checking over his map for what felt like the fiftieth time that morning, pen tapping against the table in a physical manifestation of his restless energy. The familiar motion morphed, as it was want to do that morning, into a glance up at his brother standing serenely at the railing. He couldn’t help but smile at the deep breaths of sea air he saw him take in, the small approving sighs and appreciative noises that spoke of the comfort the tranquil waves gave him. His eyes were half-open, almost glazed and cast out over the sea like the breath-taking view was not something he got to see every day.

In that moment that was probably true.

Ford ran a hand through his hair, his smile dropping. He tried to push down the incessant voice that told him to go talk to his brother and help him remember, instead focusing on the ship and the routine of running it, even if it didn’t really slow his mind down at all. He hated this awful _waiting_ but wait he must. The side-effects of the memory gun still festered in Stan’s mind, and Ford knew that they had to work through them slowly and surely to stop further repercussions. Staying level headed, however, when his brother woke up some mornings, once in a blue moon, and didn’t know where he was or who _he_ was, was something he was still having to work on.

The first time it had happened had been disastrous.

He had _panicked_. Stan had looked up at him from his bunk, sleepy and pliant, a soft innocent smile on his face, sending cold ice running through Ford’s veins as he asked him where they were and what they were doing, un-phased by his own lack of knowledge unlike Ford. He’d almost turned the ship around, mind frantically screaming that Mabel would know what to do. She could fix this. She’d fixed it the first time with her scrapbook. The thought that this time it was permanent didn’t even factor in his head, wanting to believe that this was just a blip, that if they pushed like they had the first time then everything would be OK.

To his intense relief, he had been right, it was just a blip. One that continued happening over the months they were at sea. Every so often the small spark that was Stan vanished under an impenetrable white fog that was hard for them both to navigate through.

The first time had been the worst though. He hadn’t been able to stop the fear that tore into his lungs. Hadn’t been able to stop himself from reaching forward and grabbing his brother, asking questions at such a speed he kept tripping over his words. Recited memory after memory all in the hopes that one of them would set the cogs in motion and Stan would be beside him again.

He had pushed and pushed unrelentingly.

He’d scared Stan.

It had hurt. Pure unwavering agony amidst the sharp tang of guilt shuddering through him as his brother ripped out of his grasp and backed himself into a corner. He hadn’t meant to overload him, hadn’t meant to make _him_ start to panic as the peaceful innocent moment broke and Stan seemed to understand all that he had lost in one fell swoop, hands clutching at his hair as he lowered himself to the ground. Ford felt hollowed, his own mind blank as Stan started to hiss out the same questions he had been repeating over and over only moments before, trying anything to get a rise out of his brother’s recollections.

_W-who am I? Where am I? What am I doing here? Who are you? Why are we here?_

_WHO AM I?_

The ice in his veins had turned to fire, burning him with hot shame as he took a step towards his brother to comfort him, tried to pry his hands from his head where he could see his nails digging into his scalp. The response scolded him further, a sharp small whimper as the man pushed himself further into the small recess he’d found for himself. That was when Ford had snapped, tears leaking down his cheeks as he darted out of the living quarters and towards the helm.

All he’d done was make things worse, but the kids, they’d be able to help.

They had to be able to help.

Ford didn’t let himself rest, staying glued to the helm, map tucked tight to him as he steered a course through the unruly waves. He’d only left his position to make Stan food, to peek in on him every so often and try his best to coax him out.

Stan didn’t leave his bed, his eyes wide and nervous as his hands fidgeted quietly in the bedding. Ford apologised profusely as he tried to get him to eat, to relax again, his spirits dampened and feeling just as lost as his brother looked. The childlike persona had returned, but was now reprimanded and fearful, doing exactly as he was told in fear of another outburst. Shrinking back with a stuttered whispered plea whenever Ford tried to lure any small detail out of him.

_I-I don’t remember. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please…please stop asking._

Ford left him to it as much as possible after that, hating that he had caused that reaction. Hated that his brother pulled back from him the same way a much younger version had once cringed away from their father, the promise of a beating forever in his temperament.

And so Ford had concentrated on getting them back to family, back to home, back to anything that might help in his endeavour. Watched guardedly from his post as the sky darkened, watched over his brother’s sleeping form when after a day from hell he finally lost the heavy pained expression and tense rigid muscles to the gentle sway of a calm and dreamless sleep.

Stan had remembered the next morning.

Ford had swept him up in a hug, tears flowing freely as he trembled. _His brother remembered_ , that was all that mattered, all he cared about in that moment. He hadn’t lost him again like he thought he had. Then Stan had started to apologise and he’d shaken his head abruptly, emotions overflowing as his hold around Stan tightened. Apologised for scaring him, apologised for forgetting and Ford wasn’t having any of it. Yet he couldn’t seem to get the guilty expression to leave Stan’s face.

It took a lot of discussion, the pair taking a break from adventuring for the day after the turmoil the last had caused. There was a lot of quickly brushed aside apologies on both sides before Ford finally connected the dots and realised why Stan felt so guilty.

He didn’t _just_ remember himself, he remembered the day before.

He remembered pushing Ford away, being absolutely terrified of him, thinking he was a _stranger_ and the shame for his actions was eating away at him. He could recall vividly the heartbroken wrecked look his brother had given him when he’d flinched back from his touch. How he’d walked on eggshells the rest of the day but Stan hadn’t been able to conjure up any familiarity, any resemblance for the person stood before him.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

Whilst at the same time, Ford’s heart ached with a different disgrace for not being able to prevent it all, for causing it all in the first place when he pulled the trigger. For not being able to subdue his own response and distressing Stan all that much more.

And so they’d done the one thing they’d never been very good at. Instead of brushing it under the carpet, they’d talked about it. Ford had laboured that Stan didn’t have to make up excuses, that there was no shame in what was happening. How he’d made a huge sacrifice to save the world, there was nothing degrading about the situation they found themselves in. Stan still didn’t seem to believe him but when _Ford_ apologised, that was a different thing entirely and it was suddenly Stan comforting and shaking his head. That _of course_ he’d respond like that, anyone would if they’d gone through what they had both gone through. Of course he would freak out if after all that painstaking work they did to get him back it took only a split second to lose him again.

It was funny really, how comforting the other was how they themselves healed. How their words stitched their own wounds as much as they reassured the other that it was _OK_ to be scared, _OK_ to be angry and confused by it all. Because whatever happened they’d always have the other to fall back on.

They’d take on the world if they had to, inside and out, but always together.

And then they were laughing again and it was water under the bridge, the storm clouds chased away by the bright sunlight and the sparkle of another day of adventuring. A bad day, that’s all that yesterday had been, a ripple in an otherwise calm sea. One that for some reason seemed like a fleeting occurrence instead of a harbinger of what was to come.

Or maybe they were both just trying to deny the inevitable.

Yet the next time still came as a shock, the solid weight of anguish deep in Ford’s stomach when a month or so later his brother smiled at him with that same vacant expression.

“Where are we headed, pal?”

Ford had kept his head this time. A mantra playing in his head that tomorrow would be better, tomorrow Stan would be back. And so he smiled, pointed out things on the map, tried not to choke or make any distressed noises at Stan’s unabashed enthusiasm and curiosity at everything he told him. How his eyes roamed the map gleefully even though he’d helped pick out the route himself, now trailing a hand over his own handwriting without even knowing. He told himself it was fine, that it was better than _that time_ but he longed to see him roll his eyes, to gruffly but endearingly tell him to ‘shut it, nerd, just give me the good bits. What kind of treasure are we talking about here?’ or yawn jokingly, eyes sparking mischievously, anything to get a rise out of his brother.

There was none of that playful gleam in the man before him.

_Stan will be back tomorrow, just breathe and get through today_.

That was still one of the better days.

There had been others, days when they’d been caught in the middle of stormy seas or too close to a creature neither of them had been prepared for. Sometimes it wasn’t even that bad, a few rough waves, a creature easily dispatched but by then the damage was done. It happened often, considering their ‘line of work’ as Stan lovingly called it and so the fateful times it coincided with Stan’s memory failing him were unfortunately fairly typical.

He hated those days.

The days when he didn’t have a chance to slip up. Which happened once in a while, his loose tongue spouting something he just assumed Stan knew and he’d find the man’s eyebrow furrowing in confusion, the dots slowly connecting that there were, well, no dots to connect. But it was the days when something jolted him that really stumped Ford. A sudden crack of thunder or the roar of a sea creature and he’d suddenly realise he had no idea where he was, who he was or what on earth he was doing on this godforsaken ship in the height of a storm. It was easier to comfort Stan on those days, no longer the cause of his bitter fear like the first time. But he still had to deal with the potential danger first and by that point he always dreaded what state he’d find his brother in.

Which served as a cautionary reminder to him now. Days like today, when the ocean was calm and the air was warm, albeit still painful were the best he could hope for.

If it wasn’t for the fact that his own troubles were plaguing him.

“ _Shit_.” Ford cursed as he gripped his wrist, a shot of pain going through him as his pen slipped out of his grasp. He grit his teeth, his nails biting into his skin as his hand continued to spasm. He closed his eyes, wincing as he tried his best to move through the pain, to push his hand passed the electricity running through his nerves. A sigh of relief escaped him as the pain dwindled, glad that on this occasion the pain had been fleeting and localised.

“You OK in there?”

Ford’s eyes opened with a jolt as he stepped back, hand instantly behind him at Stan’s innocent yet concerned expression peeking in the doorway. “Hmm? Yeah, everything’s fine. J-just-” His eyes skirted around for anything that could be a viable excuse, locking on to his pen. “Just dropped my pen, that’s all.”

“…Ok then.”

Ford cursed inwards at Stan’s disbelieving expression. Just because he couldn’t recall anything didn’t mean he was blind to Ford’s obvious lies. And he really was obvious, the hand behind his back still tingling away with pins and needles as normal feeling returned to it. He couldn’t stop the cringe as he continued to flex it, tried to stop the small sparks jumping through it. Stan might not know what was going on but there was an odd clarity behind his eyes as he continued to stare at him. As if he could tell that Ford was hiding something big from him.

Ford clenched his teeth, determined to suck it up and keep strong. If it was any other day he would have told Stan the truth, they’d been through enough to decide secrets, especially ones concerning their health, really shouldn’t be secrets between them. So Stan knew the truth. Had been blinded by vehement rage when Ford told him why this was all happening and what had transpired while he was Bill’s prisoner. Stan had taken grim satisfaction in remembering that he’d smashed the dream demon to pieces even if he wished he had hurt it more. But the anger had passed and Ford had been grateful for his brothers continuing efforts to assist him whenever his nerves played havoc with him.

But this Stan was different.

This wasn’t his Stan.

And so he pushed it all down as best he could. He smiled brightly at the still incredulous and suspicious raised eyebrows and leant down to pick up the pen, ready to get back to his map as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

At least that’s what he’d meant to do.

He had been puzzled for a moment when there was a sharp pain in his hip. He took a moment to look down, taking in that he’d managed to glance the table when he’d shuffled forward. He shook it off, shrugging the unease away as a clumsy moment that happened in such close quarters. The cabin was cramped since they’d moved the table in there and it had taken a lot of manoeuvring to get used to the ship in general but he thought he would have by now.

“You want me to grab that for ya?”

“Hmm?” Ford jolted back into the room, noting that he’d been staring passively down at the pen as he took in his unusual clumsy motion. He glanced up, mouth coiling slightly at the jovial lilt to Stan’s voice. It was almost him, the barest hint of the joker he was used to, a teasing smirk hinting on his face. Ford couldn’t help but flush embarrassed at the thought that this Stan thought he couldn’t even pick up a pen. “I can manage.” He sniffed, leaning down, one hand pressed on top of the table as he reached down for it. A small groan escaped him as he tightened his grip on it and went to stand up.

Only for the pen to fall from his grasp again.

Ford stared at his hand, a bubble of uncertainty rearing its ugly head as he concentrated on its movements, sheer will power coming through to move each finger individually, to tighten it into a fist, ready to try and grip around the pen again-

His hand twitched in response.

He swallowed, his stomach lurching at the feeble gesture his hand gave him, a current of energy still sparking through it even though he felt like that should make it more flexible, not less. He could feel the current creeping up his arm as he stood there, ever so slowly seeping into the muscle, slowly taking away his control. He gulped again, hand tightening around his forearm as he tried to crush the feeling before it went any further.

“…Are  you sure, you don’t want me to…”

Ford flinched again, scuttling back as his head snapped to Stan, eyes serious and wide with concern as they took in the stranger before him. He’d forgotten he was there again! He couldn’t let him see him like this! “No! No, everything’s fine. I just need a minute if you don’t mind.”

“Look, pal, I don’t know who you are but I’m not just gonna leave you to suffer through whatever it is that’s going on.”

It felt like a slap to the face, pride and relief at his brother’s overall comforting behaviour mixing darkly with the painful crushing reality of the day this had to fall on, because normally Stan would just _know_ what to do. Any other day he’d have taken Stan’s help in a heartbeat, his bruised ego could take the fall when Stan took the gesture as a sign to assist him with little fanfare. Stan might joke with him, might tease him relentlessly but never about something serious. Even as something as little as this in Ford’s eyes, that left him feeling chagrined and so terribly weak would garner little response from Stan, who had the presence of mind not to push his buttons and make him feel worse.

He’d make sure he was alright, make sure that he knew there was no judgement and that he was overall just concerned for his wellbeing, but as soon as Ford proved to him that the episode was over, he’d let it slide, just like they let the bad days slide.

He wasn’t sure this Stan would let it slide, he didn’t want to talk about what the long term implications could be, not now, not ever.

Especially not like _this_.

So he walled himself off, stood up as straight as possible even though he could feel the volts burning haphazardly down his side. His eyes narrowed as Stan took his silence as acceptance and slowly walked forward to help. “I can manage. There’s nothing wrong with me.” The words came out gruff, tight between clenched teeth, his hand still gripping tightly into his forearm. The wall cracked just as quickly as it had been put up, however. Stan had frozen at the commanding tone, his eyebrows furrowed as if it was somehow familiar but not in a good way. He took a hesitant step back, hands up placatingly and suddenly Ford was lost again.

“Of course you can, I didn’t mean to imply…”

Ford continued to stare at him. His brother had never seemed to recognise something before, especially something as menial as a tone of voice.

And then it clicked, the realisation knocked the wind out of him is a reproachful hiss.

He’d sounded like Pa.

_Oh God._

“Shit, no I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sna-”

White hot pain shot up Ford’s leg, blinding his thoughts as he stumbled, a yell of pain bubbling up his throat as he felt his leg give under him. He had meant to take a step forward, had meant to apologise and appease Stan before the conversation could go further down the rabbit hole. But his body seemed hell bent on ignoring his pleas to be the strong one, just for today.

It was like time had slowed to a crawl as he fell forward, nothing he could do to stop his slow descent towards the floor. Then there were hands grabbing him, stopping him before he cracked his head on the table, a voice near his ear that he couldn’t quite hear through the ringing but knew was a panicked garble of concern. He just felt exhausted, staring down at his leg like it wasn’t his own, lost in his own little bubble. Bone weary as pins and needles covered his entire side, a tingling burn that irritated and itched. But he could feel himself being shaken gently, could feel Stan trying to drag him back to the world of the living and so he forced through the dense gloom that had descended. Brought his hands up to Stan’s arms still tight around his shoulders to let him know that he understood and he was fine even if he couldn’t say it in that moment.

If he’d had any words to give they would have caught in his throat as he suddenly felt hollow, everything gouged out of him and leaving only a thick layer of dread behind in its place.

His hand had made contact.

But not with his brother.

The world crashed around him. Time sped back up as adrenaline pumped through his veins, his ears popping as all the sound rushed back in. The sudden knowledge he’d been granted left him dizzy and nauseous, the listing of the boat not helping with his plight.

He tried to recoil, a deep set fear plunging him into darkness, his thoughts spinning circles as he fought tooth and nail. But he couldn’t escape, his legs refusing to co-operate as his hands tugged fruitlessly at Stan’s jumper, each moment of contact dragging him closer to the edge. The arms tightening around his shoulders sent shockwaves of grief through him, the contrast too much for him. He was meant to feel safe here but he didn’t, not at all.

It didn’t feel _right_.

The thick knitted jumper had none of its woollen texture, he could feel almost nothing at all in fact under his fingertips. His breathing hitched as his eyes registered what his hands couldn’t. _Skin, you touched skin_. But he wouldn’t have known, the feel of it the same across his palms as the articles of clothing had been. His heart started to hammer in his throat at the implications that shattered his mind to pieces.

_It wasn’t real._

_None of it was real._

He was trapped somewhere, wasn’t he? Trapped in a never-ending dream some vile species had concocted just for him. He ignored the whimper the thought caused, his heart breaking as he looked up at ‘Stan’. He’d been so hopeful, everything had gone too well, hadn’t it? Of course it had. There was no way they would have defeated Bill and have everyone survive. There was no way the last few years of his life were really going to be just him and his brother, sailing the world like they’d always planned.

It was a foolhardy dream, an impossibility that he really should have seen through months ago.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the terrified expression above him. He tried to tug himself away again but the other man wasn’t having it. What was all this then? Did the system have to reboot every so often? Was that why Stan ‘forgot’ the things that they both knew, once in a while? Was it all some big game to whoever was watching him?

His eyes trailed away, unable to focus on the imposter’s face for a moment longer but still unable to move. He cursed his leg, tried to shake it out to no avail and suddenly another painful theory slipped through, another ice cold shard of fear slipping down his back. If he’d never fought Bill, these injuries shouldn’t be real.

Unless the torture was happening right now, outside this dream world he’d been placed it. Maybe the machine he was hooked up to was playing havoc with his nervous system.

There was no time.

He needed to escape. _Now_.

 

* * *

 

“Hey? Hey, can you hear me? What’s going on? How do I help?”

Stan didn’t know what to do and the notion was panic inducing. One minute the day had been so serene, bobbing along on the calm waves without a care in the world. Mind as blank as the clear blue sky above them and just as warm. The next he was sitting in the storm that was the cabin, the stranger- the captain as far as he was aware, seemed to have been taken ill. It had been instinct more than anything that made him dive forward, one hand tight around the others waist, the other going instantly for his head as it made a beeline for the table edge. He slipped them down steadily, his feet sliding him into an awkward position in the hopes of keeping the other well protected. He didn’t know why he did it, but he felt the need to change his arm position, wrapping them solidly around the other’s shoulders, a protective gesture against the world, a promise of safety. But it didn’t seem to be working, nothing seemed to be working as he sat there, his mind completely awhirl at the sudden chain of events.

And he didn’t know how to _help_.

He took another glance down at the man trying to forcefully remove himself from his grasp but there was something, an inkling of a hunch that told him not to let him. He didn’t know where it had come from but it was the first piece of knowledge he’d had all day so he latched on to it with a passion, his arms tightening around the other man, hoping to buckle down and ride out the storm with him.

He winced as blunt nails dug into his neck, the hands tugging through the front of his jumper. It was the small whimper that made him look down, arms loosening ever so slightly in worry that he was hurting him. He felt his heart break at the look of utter mistrust on the face staring back at him.

He didn’t know why it hurt so much.

He didn’t even know the guy.

“Stan would know…”

“What was that?” Stan squinted at the man, straining to hear the words he wasn’t even sure the other knew he was saying. They were half babbled, as if his brain to mouth filter had gone and it was half formed thoughts spewing from his lips, stuttering out with little restraint. Who was this Stan? He froze for a second, mind tasting the word. Was that his name? Why didn’t he know? He shook the thought away, now was not the time.

Besides he was probably wrong, the name didn’t feel familiar, the other probably just wished this ‘Stan’ was here instead of him.

He kind of wished it too, at least he’d be able to help.

“No, you’re not him, not him. Not real, can’t be real…”

_Oh_.

So, maybe he was ‘Stan’. He felt his arms loosen slightly at the concept, not really conscious of the action. This was all far too surreal, how could someone be saying his name but he felt nothing towards it? Nothing towards the person who must know him? It hurt to think about so he focused on the rest of the man’s words. _Not real._ His stomach lurched at the implication, pretty sure that as surreal as it all felt this wasn’t a dream. Unless they were both having the same dream, which again just made his head thump painfully in response to the nonsensical notion. So if he was real, and this guy having a panic attack was real, he could safely assume that yes, he was actually on a boat in the middle of nowhere.

With absolutely no-one around to help him convince the guy that actually, yes, this was reality.

…Perfect. Just perfect.

“H-hey, pal, can you hear me? I’m not sure how to go about this but I can assure you this is real.” Stan could have laughed at his own pathetic attempt. Blunt and to the point but really what else could he do? It was like the tide was trying to drag them under and it was up to him to keep them both afloat. He felt like he could barely keep himself afloat. “C-come on, man. I can’t- I don’t know how to help. What do you need me to do?” _I’ll do anything._ He bit the words back before they tumbled, still unclear on why he was so concerned for a person he had no recollection of.

He froze as eyes bored into his own suddenly, the fear in them lost to a terrible rage that he couldn’t comprehend at all as the man started to struggle again. He cursed, arms closing in around them both again as he started to rock them back and forth. He knew logically he should let go of him, should back away and let him deal but who knew what he would do if he thought this was all a dream? What reckless stunt he might pull? No, he’d keep hold of him until he could figure out some way of proving this world was real. He chuckled self-deprecatingly at the thought, as if it was some flippant easy thing to say, let alone do.

“ _Get off_ \- imposter, trickster-”

Stan grit his teeth as the man got more hostile, his hands clawing at him anywhere they could reach, a fire still burning in the intense eyes that stared back at him. Their gaze was broken as a hand shoved his head sideways, desperate to force something between them. A growl rumbled through Stan’s chest, irritation getting the better of him.

“Oh for crying out loud, _Sixer_ , will you just stop for one second and listen to me!”

 

* * *

 

Time froze again.

Ford’s arms dropped uselessly to his sides, the roaring turmoil of his head slipping away to a whispered hum as the words anchored him. A heavy sigh of relief had him glancing up, wincing slightly at the red trailing marks blooming on his brother’s skin, the wide and hopeful eyes staring back at him. He was still distrusting, eyes narrowed and glancing over the face but the words had snapped him back through the fog of anxiety. The conundrum somehow soothing the fraying thoughts still drifting around his head. He’d been starting to dissect the pattern, the weeks of normality before the system rebooted and with it rebooted the model of Stan, it must have a time limit before it needed to restart.

_Sixer._

That. That was different. That went against the routine.

Surely that meant something?

“What.” Ford coughed, his words catching. “What did you call me?”

“Huh?” Stan blinked back at him dazedly before his eyebrows furrowed, obviously having to think back through his words. Ford held his breath, waiting somewhat patiently, almost scared that he had misheard, his mind playing tricks on him to add to his hysteria-

“Sixer? I think?” Stan seemed so unsure of himself, but that was all he needed, the air coming of him in a heave. “Hey! Hey, it’s OK, I don’t get it but everything is OK.” Ford almost choked, it still wasn’t right, he was still unsure but somehow the word had helped. That one word had righted the world just enough for him to claw his way back out of the darkness. He could feel the relief coming from his twin in waves as he rubbed a hand up and down his back, his words soft and soothing.

And then suddenly the hands weren’t there anymore, the abrupt removal of the heat beside him making his head spin. He didn’t know how long he’d been trying to escape but in the one moment he’d finally accepted the hug for what it was and was starting to feel marginally normal again it had been ripped away.

He felt like cursing whatever deity was orchestrating his plight today.

Everything hurt.

“God, I am so sorry.” Ford frowned at that, glancing over at his brother’s remorseful expression, his hands twitching as he stared resolutely away from him. “ _God_ , I didn’t mean to- calling you something like that is so- That’s so inconsiderate of me. Why would you want to be called that-”

Ford blinked, realising that Stan wasn’t back as much as he had hoped. Somehow the word had gotten through though. “Hey, it’s fine. An old friend used to call me that actually.”

“Really?”

Ford nodded at Stan’s wide-eyed disbelief, watching him relax and scoot back over next to him. His mind had clicked back on though at his own words, a gulp of nervous energy humming through him. There were a few possible theories now as to what was going on. The obvious one being that this was still all a ruse, an illusion that he needed to escape. If in the unlikely chance this was actually real and Stan was sitting beside him, there was still a very distinct terrible possibility that raised the hair on the back of his neck as he sat as painfully still as possible.

After all there were two ‘old friends’ that used to call him ‘Sixer’.

And both of them were technically sat beside him.

He licked his lips, hands tight around himself as he sat there. He hadn’t even noticed through his raging thoughts that his hands motor functions had returned, or that he’d moved his legs, curled up into as small a ball as was possible. Too busy focusing now on whether Bill was still rattling around in his brother’s head. Whether on the days he forgot himself were the days that Bill was trying to get through.

_Will I have to erase his memory again?_

“Shh.”

There was a hand on his back again and Ford abruptly noticed the tremors running through him, the soft barely audible gasping breaths he’d been letting out at the painful notion of losing his brother again, this time forever. How much they had gone through to find out that maybe Bill hadn’t been defeated, that they had been living in a dream world, but not the sort he’d been envisioning.

A soft hum melted the ice cold thoughts from his head and brought about new images in their stead. Age old nostalgic memories of childhood nightmares and bedridden days when a soothing hand or lips would press against foreheads as the familiar hum caressed the fear away. He choked again, a sob of relief echoing through his chest.

Bill wouldn’t know that, not if Stan wasn’t present in his mind at that moment.

He wouldn’t know that the ancient tune, that Ford had near on forgotten, a song their mother used to sing would calm his soul and right the world again.

“How?”

“Hmm?”

Ford blinked, he hadn’t even meant to speak. “How do you know that song?” He hated that his words stopped the humming, a pregnant pause pressuring the air around them.

“I-I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Ford hated the vulnerability that resonated through the usually boisterous mouth. His protective reflexes overtook everything else as he turned and looked at his clearly upset brother, fighting with his own mind to remember. “It’s- It’s OK.”

“No, it’s not, not really.” Stan chewed on the inside of his lip before shrugging. “Does it help though?”

Ford blinked a few times at him before nodding slowly.

“Then at the moment, that’s all that matters.”

Ford felt his body slump further as Stan started to hum again, his hand trailing up and down his back in a circular motion. He put one hand out to steady himself as the adrenaline finally left his body and he slumped further into Stan’s embrace-

And felt wool beneath his fingertips.

Ford smiled softly, hand loosely tugging at the strands, winding them round his finger as his eyelids fell heavily.

_This is real. You’re safe, it’s Stan._

_It’s Stan._

 

* * *

 

Stan felt the man drift below him, carried on humming softly and swaying them both, not wanting to kick-start the anguish from earlier all over again. He let the events mull in his head, let the name ‘Stan’ do the same as he kept up his motions. ‘Sixer’ hadn’t seemed surprised to see him this morning, not surprised by his lack of knowledge so maybe this was a usual occurrence? _No, he said Stan would know._ He frowned thoughtfully, puzzled by the pieces that didn’t seem to fit even though they looked right. Did that mean he wasn’t Stan? Or that this loss of memory was temporary? He glanced back down at the peaceful expression, his own relaxing at the sight. He hoped he was Stan, he hoped that he’d remember soon and know how to solve all the problems. And if he wasn’t Stan then…well, he’d just have to stay with Sixer until they found him.

Stan nodded, happy with his decision, his humming faltering as his eyes trailed further, landing on the other man’s leg, the hand still slightly propped up against his jumper as if he was scared to lose the contact. He started up the noise again when he peripherally saw his face scrunched up, the hand he was watching tightening in his clothing in disappointment, but his mind was still ahead of him.

Stan didn’t know what had caused his body to fail him, he’d have to ask him when he woke up. He’d prod and pry if he had to.

And then they were going to stop off at the next port, wherever that was and get him some help.

Get both of them some help.

He took a deep breath in at the thought. He didn’t know what had happened with his memory but something obviously was _wrong_ about the whole situation. It scared him though, the thought of having his brain looked at, the thought of being told it was permanent and he’d lost such a big part of himself that he wasn’t even aware of.

He looked down again at the man in his arms, letting the air in his lungs out in a shaky breath. It might scare him but if it would make sure that _he_ got help as well…well that just settled it then, didn’t it? He still wasn’t sure why this man meant so much to him, he just assumed that it was something so ingrained that even with his memories gone it was still there, buried deep down for him to latch on to.

Maybe it was just the fact that they must trust each other to some extent to be out in the middle of nowhere with no real way of contacting anyone.

And he really hoped that was the case, really hoped they were close because hopefully that meant if he was Stan and he remembered himself in a few days, he’d still remember this decision. This moment when he decided that it didn’t matter how scared he was if it meant he might be able to convince Sixer to be brave as well.

His humming faltered. What if he wouldn’t remember this? What if when his memories, _if_ his memories came back, he forgot the here and now? Or what if when he closed his eyes he’d just lose today as well to whatever was eating away at his brain?

He glanced around, eyes lighting up at the pen that was still rolling nearby. He grabbed it quickly, eyes darting around again for something before deciding with a chuckle where would be best. He tugged his arm tighter around the other so that he could reach it better, tapping the pen for a few seconds as he thought of what to put. He bit his lip, scribbling a few words, pausing every so often as he wondered if it would even be helpful in the morning but without knowing what was going on with either of them it was the best he could come up with.

He shrugged once, dropping the pen again and settling down, the day finally catching up with him as well, as the sky darkened. He looked down one more time at the serene expression as he rubbed a hand through the other’s hair, giggling at the soft grumble he got in return before his own eyes started to droop and he leant back against the table.

Hopefully tomorrow would be a better day.

 

_If you’re reading this, I hope you remember writing it. But just in case, I need you to be brave, OK? Be brave and ask for help. You both need it. It’s not weak. Be brave for both of you._

_Look after Sixer._

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I just want to say I’ve only read up on peripheral neuropathy and so I’m not all too sure whether the nerve damage is continuous or episodic like I’ve made out in this fic so sorry if it’s not realistic but I wanted it to work for the fic. But yeah, found out that was a possible side-effect of electric shocks so I thought I’d have a go at it.


End file.
